


Do You See What I Hear?

by xfphile



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Humor, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24364591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfphile/pseuds/xfphile
Summary: Dot Collins blamed the honey.
Relationships: Hugh Collins/Dorothy "Dot" Williams, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 113





	Do You See What I Hear?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> So, I saw the movie and couldn't decide what to think about it. I watched it a few more times, which lead to a massive binge-watch of the show, which lead to . . . well, this. I have no idea where this came from or why my muse decided that's what it wanted, but . . .
> 
> As always, concrit is love. And many, many thanks to my fantastic beta reader, LeChatNoir1918. So go read her stuff, because it is made of awesome. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**_ Do You See What I Hear? _ **

Dot Collins blamed the honey.

~~~

She had found herself lingering in Phryne Fisher’s kitchen long after the time she usually headed home but since he was working the late shift, she had stayed as she normally did on those occasions, helping Mr Butler with the myriad of little chores that came with managing a large, busy house. Hugh wouldn’t be here to collect her until a little after midnight, and even though she should have been reveling in being in her own home, uninterrupted, she had found herself lingering here instead. After a great deal of coaxing, she had finally agreed to allow her parents to watch their 6-month old son for the night and next day. Her mother — knowing that Hugh was off tomorrow — had enticed her with the prospect of spending time with her husband uninterrupted by a fussy newborn. Being the mother of said newborn, Dot had consented more easily than she had showed, but it wasn’t until she was leaving her parent’s home that the _other_ motivation had been revealed — and her mum not been at all subtle about her desire for another grandchild. Even now, her insinuations were enough to make Dot blush with mortification.

It didn’t help that Hugh was hoping for the same thing.

Well, maybe not a baby. He didn’t get up to tend little Gregory, but he too had yet to get a full night’s sleep since their son was born, and even as sweet and loving as he was, caring for a newborn was something he was happy to leave to her. To be fair, she was just as happy to have it; it was a wonderful time for bonding and she fell deeper in love with Greg every day — although the thought of getting more than 2 hours in a row of actual sleep tonight was a luxury she would never have imagined a year ago. Marital relations, though . . .

And that was why Dot found herself trying to tactfully justify to Mr Butler her desire to stay and clean the baseboards in between gathering items from the pantry for the lunch basket she was making for Hugh and Inspector Robinson when they went back on shift in two days (they had, after an especially intense week, agreed to split the job of keeping the two men fed at work; it was that, or drop dead of sheer exhaustion by Wednesday. And, amazingly enough, it was the inspector who was the cause. Dot had seen 20-year old footie players eat less after a game than Jack Robinson could put away on a normal Thursday.).

Her thoughts circled back again to Hugh and their relations.

She loved Hugh with every fiber of her being, she did, but . . . well . . . she really didn’t — well, the marriage bed was . . . not something she looked forward to. Hugh was incredibly sweet and gentle and tender, but despite being married for almost two years now, Dot still didn’t understand why marital relations were something Miss Fisher enjoyed so much.

Miss Fisher.

For the thousandth time, Dot wished that she had the courage to ask her employer — her friend — any of the improper and scandalous questions she had about these . . . activities. Of all the people on earth, Phryne Fisher was the only person she _could_ ask, but Dot simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was just so — so improper. And scandalous. And maddening, because she knew Miss Fisher would tell her anything she wanted to know and not laugh at her. For heaven’s sake, she could handle any type of gun or knife now, without so much as a quibble! But she couldn’t get past her embarrassment about . . . marital relations.

And yes, she had heard — well, a lot, over the years; the house had beautiful thick walls but Miss Fisher was frequently . . . um, enthusiastic . . . and, well. So Dot had heard a lot. Unfortunately, that was no help, because she had no clue _what_ she had heard and even if she _could_ bring herself to ask, there really wasn’t a tactful way to phrase ‘I’m sorry, Miss Fisher, but can you please tell me why you were moaning ‘more, oh yes . . . no, to the left — no, your other left, oh, yes, there!’?’.

There simply wasn’t.

She blushed just thinking about it . . . even as a dark part of her was desperate to know.

Right then, she heard the unexpected sound of the kitchen door opening from the parlor, accompanied by Inspector Robinson’s voice, and she was so startled, she dropped the jar of honey she was putting in the basket. In the process of catching it, she accidentally yanked the pantry door shut, locking herself in. Even as the latch clicked into place, she was rolling her eyes at herself. It seemed she needed sleep more than she’d realized and she shook her head, preparing to step into the kitchen and greet the inspector before heading home, when she heard —

Well, she wasn’t sure what it was, but it was an unusual sound, and not one she’d heard Miss Fisher make before.

Unable to stop herself, Dot pressed her ear to the door and scrunched her nose in concentration so she could listen.

“Honestly, Jack, I’m starting to think you don’t actually eat food when I’m with you. You _cannot_ possibly be hungry after the meal Anatole fed us. It hasn’t been an hour!” Miss Fisher exclaimed, sounding fondly exasperated.

“What makes you think I want food?” the inspector drawled, sounding . . . well, Dot wasn’t sure. And she didn’t want to know.

Except she did.

Because she’d never heard Hugh sound like that.

There was a long, intriguing silence that made Dot wish, suddenly, that she had the courage to look out the door and actually see what had sparked that silence.

And her fingers twisted the knob of the pantry door.

~~~

Phryne Fisher choked back her moan as Jack caressed the tender skin of her inner right forearm with those beautiful, lightly-callused fingertips. This had become his new favorite form of foreplay, once he’d discovered that it was one of her most intense erogenous zones, and he had quickly learned that his piano-playing skills were a Godsend for her. His current goal in life (well, in sex) was to make her climax just from stroking and playing with her inner arms.

Before Jack, she would have sworn on a stack of _Kama Sutras_ that was impossible.

Now? The anticipation was enough to get her in the mood with no other effort required and she was beginning to think he might achieve his goal. Soon.

Not that she had told Jack, mind, nor did she plan to. Their competitive natures had a tendency to make their sex life . . . incendiary. In fact, though she would have sworn on that same stack of _Kama Sutras_ that Jack would never fuck her outside the bedroom (or tents in the middle of a desert), he had taken her in a variety of creative places, albeit _after_ she had done her considerable best to provoke him (though his refusal to ravish her on a camel was still irritating; understandable, in hindsight, but irritating). She was looking forward to the day when he took the initiative on his own, but until then (and after, of course), she took great joy in ruffling his perfectly-pomaded feathers. He’d made her wait three and a half years, after all, so it was only fair that he make love to her in the ways she desired now.

A sudden light nip just below her elbow pulled a throaty moan from her without conscious thought, and he grinned against the sensitive skin before mouthing a narrow stripe back down to her wrist. Against her will, she purred. The resultant smirk pushed her over her (admittedly low) limit and with an affronted huff that did nothing to hide her rising hunger for him, she tangled their fingers and attempted to tug him to the door, and thus the stairs and then their bedroom (or, more likely, the banister halfway up; Jack was actually salivating).

Thus, it was with some surprise that she found herself yanked flush to his chest, his mouth laving moist, hot kisses down her throat as he carried her quickly to — the wide shelf on the kitchen window? Before she could do more than blink in surprise, having never pegged Jack as having voyeuristic inclinations (his passions ran as deep as the Pacific, but so did his thrice-damned restraint), he was on his knees, those elegant hands tugging her knickers off with a haste that startled her a little. Being Phryne Fisher, she recovered immediately and arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m afraid the spoons are over there, Jack,” she drawled, stroking one bare foot (when had she lost her shoes?) up his chest. He caught it and pressed a heated kiss to the arch before rumbling, “Why on earth would I want a spoon, when I have a bevy of delightful finger foods waiting to be sampled?” as his broad shoulders spread her thighs and that wicked mouth was pressed to her aching center. His touch combined with that _voice_ to push her to the edge of climax so quickly that she cried out in actual surprise, her fingers tangling in his thick hair as he feasted with a will.

It felt astonishingly good, and yet . . . she couldn’t quite get there.

“To the — oh! Move right a little, Jack!” she gasped, not-quite-gently tugging his hair. He growled and eagerly obeyed, but still didn’t find where she wanted him to be. The sensation was becoming unbearable (to be so close with no relief and not the teasing kind of close was _maddening_ ), and, desperate, Phryne finally pushed him back enough to slip her hand in and press a finger to the place that was throbbing for attention, her eyes falling closed in pleasure. Her lover’s moan of protest trailed off and he went completely still as she lightly fingered herself, her hips starting to rotate with her movements.

The air was electric but he hadn’t tried to touch her again, so she took a deep breath before forcing her eyes open . . . and froze.

His eyes were hooded and fixed on her hand, the pupils blown so wide that the miniscule sliver of blue ringing them actually glowed as he watched her.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed, curling his fingers around her knee and leaning in, licking his lips in raw hunger before looking up and catching her eyes with his.

“That . . . Phryne, that is so sexy,” he murmured, licking his lips again and dropping his gaze back to her hand, which she was still gently working herself with. “Keep going. Show me how to touch you,” he added, his voice rough with arousal and his posture reminding her of nothing so much as a lion sighting prey. He swallowed hard, nostrils flaring, and palmed himself through his suit trousers. She had yet to enjoy the pleasure of seeing him tend to himself and the sight sent another wave of hunger rushing through her.

“Gladly, Jack,” she purred, shifting to drape the leg he wasn’t holding over his shoulder and giving herself more room to work.

And if her lover was better able to appreciate the view, well . . . what could she say? She was a veritable font of generosity.

“But I insist — oh! — that you return the favor,” she panted, giving him a smoldering look as she eased a finger inside and began to stroke.

To her surprise, he held her gaze . . . and that damned crooked smirk came to his lips again.

“As my lady wishes,” he replied. “But first . . . ”

And he sank his forefinger in alongside hers, curling them together and stroking them both up and further in.

The combination toppled her into orgasm so furiously that her scream was nearly silent, and behind the haze of pure pleasure rolling through her body, she was vaguely worried about having cracked the window, her climax had been so intense.

“—autiful, amazing, _mine_ , God, Phryne, what you do to me . . . “

As the last flames of her pleasure smoldered down to embers, she tangled her fingers with Jack’s, stopping his heated caresses on the sensitive skin of her thighs, opened her eyes, and found her jaw actually dropping open for the first time in her life.

He was on his knees in front of her, fully dressed and buttoned, his hair only mildly disheveled, eyes hot with passion and burning into hers.

And his left hand was buried in his open fly, slowly rising and falling, the tip of his cock tantalizing her from between his fingers with each rhythmic movement.

“Oh, Jack,” she whispered, licking her lips and squeezing his right hand to stop herself from reaching for him; she’d never wanted to watch something so badly in all her life. “Finger food indeed.”

~~~

That — what — what?! — she couldn’t . . . Dot literally did not know what to feel. Or think.

A huge part of her was horrified, both at her inadvertent spying and at the intimate act she’d just witnessed.

A much smaller part was . . . well . . . she really wasn’t sure. Her body felt hot and her skin was tingling and felt too tight, and she was . . . wet . . . down there. It felt — strange. But good. She kept shifting and squeezing her thighs together, trying to ease . . . well, she didn’t know. But her body felt like it wanted something very badly and she didn’t have the slightest idea about making that ache go away.

The rest of her wanted to barge out there and demand that Miss Fisher show her whatever she’d done that had apparently been so pleasurable she had to scream (and only now did she recall the offer of a book that would provide both information and “helpful hints”. And only now did she really understand how much she regretted not accepting that offer.).

“Oh, Jack. Finger food indeed.”

At Miss Fisher’s hoarse words, Dot’s head snapped around and she eyed the still-open door with an unsettling combination of curiosity and shame.

The curiosity was stronger.

A low, throaty groan that she attributed to Inspector Robinson had her taking a step back in reflex, until it trailed into a soft, “Mmm. Your hands, Jack. Do you have any idea what your hands do to me?”

A low, husky laugh was the only response, and Dot’s body clenched again. Dear God. Hugh had never made her feel like this . . . but he could. Inspector Robinson was hardly the only man to give Miss Phryne pleasure, after all. She battled with herself for what seemed like forever, but when she heard Miss Fisher rasp, “Show me, Jack. Show me what makes you gasp and writhe. Let me see what makes you fly apart, my noble Detective Inspector.”

Embarrassment flooded Dot as the meaning of those . . . dirty . . . words washed over her, but her body clenched again and she was unable to stop herself from peeking back out the pantry door, her conflicted eyes immediately finding the pair. From this angle, she could only see the inspector’s back, but she happened to look up a bit, trying to see Miss Fisher as well, and caught sight of his reflection in the window. It was blurry and indistinct, so all she could see was him, kneeling, with his knees spread and his arm moving rhythmically _down there_. A deep moan echoed in the room and Dot had a sudden, vivid image of Hugh, standing in front of her and showing her how he liked to be touched. Another wave of . . . that feeling . . . washed over her. It was even more intense this time, and Dot could only see Hugh, now, in the man reflected in the window. Hoping she would use what she saw to make him feel good. To pleasure him.

And for the first time, she didn’t find the idea sinful or wrong or unpleasant.

It was . . . arousing.

“If you want to make me writhe, Miss Fisher,” the inspector murmured, doing something that changed the rhythm of his arm, “I’ll be more than happy — mmm — to give you hands-on instruction.”

And while Dot tried to process that, he held out his free hand, fingers spread in blatant invitation. His arm never stopped moving.

Dot stopped breathing in shock. Surely Miss Fisher wouldn’t actually . . . touch him . . . there?

Would she?

Yes. Yes, she would.

And it was so — erotic — that she almost keened at the sudden rush of — oh, what _was_ this feeling?! — heat that felt like it had started at her toes and was quickly spreading everywhere. She didn’t understand, but it felt good and she wanted more of it.

As she gulped in air, her eyes never left the window reflection, where Miss Fisher’s hand had joined Inspector Robinson’s and whatever they were doing was causing a cacophony of moans, gasps, and whimpers, topped by a sudden ecstatic cry of, “Oh, God, Phryne! Again!”

As Dot watched in utter astonishment and with an insistent throbbing down between her legs, his head dropped back as he let out a soft cry of what sounded like pain but couldn’t be, and then he slowly tipped his head forward while puffing out a series of harsh exhalations while his arm slowed to something almost . . . languid . . . before stopping altogether. And a sudden image of her and Hugh in the place of Miss Fisher and Inspector Robinson flashed vividly across her thoughts, intensifying the ache and making her skin feel tingly and too small.

Unexpectedly, Dot felt a growing wave of pleasure wash over her from the top of her head and she fell back from the door from the sheer force of it, but somehow managed to stay on her feet. It was so surprising that she couldn’t even cry out, and after it was over she slumped down a little, breathing heavily and at something of a loss to explain what had just happened.

Unless . . .

Could she . . . was it possible she’d just experienced a climax? The ache between her thighs was gone, now, and she felt curiously relaxed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Miss Fisher’s mischievous words and, to her own disbelief, she blushed.

“Well, Jack, that was . . . illuminating.”

“I’m glad you approve, Miss Fisher,” he drawled.

There was a brief pause, followed by words too soft to be understood, and Dot had to know. Back to the open door she went, only to blink in confusion. They were on their feet, staring — well, it looked angry to her, but that couldn’t be right.

The stalemate was broken when Miss Phryne grabbed the inspector’s hand and began to walk out of the kitchen, towing him with her. “I’m ready for bed, Jack.”

“I see,” he replied, sounding dryly amused. “But what if I’m not? That lemon cake looks tasty.”

“Then you’re being a gentleman and escorting me so I don’t get lost,” she shot back, giving him a scorching look over her shoulder but never slowing down.

She couldn’t see his face from this angle but Dot was positive both eyebrows were at his hairline now, as he riposted, “And here I thought you didn’t ‘get lost’.”

Miss Fisher stopped so abruptly that he had to sidestep to avoid running into her and Dot watched in no small amount of confusion (and a new wave of warmth) as she poked her finger in his chest and snapped, “Jack Robinson, you are escorting me to our bedroom right this instant, and then I am going to make you come so hard you can’t walk for two days, and you’re going to like it!”

Dot could _hear_ the smug grin in his reply, and she winced in anticipation of Miss Fisher — well, she’d do something, undoubtedly.

“Just two days? You’re losing your touch, Miss Fisher.”

The door swung closed on an inarticulate sound of — something — and cutting off whatever reply might have been made, and Dot, trembling, emerged from the pantry. She was somehow still holding the jar of honey that had started everything and, breathing heavily, she contemplated it for a few minutes before carefully setting it on the table and reaching back to retrieve the picnic hamper.

A quick glance at the clock told her Hugh would be here to pick her up any minute and a feral smile came to her lips. She had no idea how long these feelings would last, but she suddenly very much looked forward to having so much uninterrupted time with her husband.

As if summoned by her thoughts, he knocked softly on the door. Dot took a deep breath, grabbed her bag and the hamper (and that jar of honey, though she was giving serious thought to keeping it as a souvenir) and went to the door, appreciating the warmth she’d slowly been growing accustomed to flaring up at the sight of his handsome face and sparkling eyes.

“Dottie!” he exclaimed, bending down to kiss her. For the first time, she responded with true carnal intent. She was still a little afraid of his reaction, but if she’d learned nothing else from Miss Phryne, it was ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ And she — they — stood so much to gain. Embarrassing as it had been, she was grateful nonetheless. The possibilities open to them now that she was . . . aware . . . of how things could be . . .

She licked his tongue at the thought, and was only mildly surprised to find that she liked it.

He gave a soft chuff of surprise against her lips, but responded enthusiastically and for a just a moment, they kissed wildly against the door. A need for air finally caused Dot to pull back and she looked up at her husband, feeling a fresh wave of heat at the sight of her lipstick smeared over his lips and his slightly stunned expression.

“Hugh?” she whispered, stroking his shoulder with her free hand.

“Hmm?” he replied, surprise fading into something more . . . amorous as he looked at her.

“Take us home.”

His nostrils flared with his sudden inhale and she grinned, letting her fingers slide higher to caress his neck. He shivered and suddenly, she wasn’t afraid.

She was _ready_.

“And Hugh?” she purred, moving just a little closer to him, so that their chests were _almost_ touching. The air was suddenly charged and Dot felt like she could fly if she wanted it badly enough.

Her husband swallowed.

“Drive like you’re Miss Fisher going to a crime scene.”

His eyes flared with desire and he tangled their fingers as they looked at — _into_ — each other.

“Yes, Miss.”

~~~  
 _fin_


End file.
